


The Last Link

by Halbereth



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-26 20:02:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30111303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Halbereth/pseuds/Halbereth
Summary: Peggy Carter, the last link to Steve's past--the last link not hiding from an ongoing international manhunt, anyway--has died.(No Major Character Death tag because Peggy's already dead, as per Civil War canon; not quite sure of tagging etiquette in this situation.)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 20





	The Last Link

“Come on, man,” Sam said quietly behind him. “Time to go.”

Steve drew a shaky breath. He hadn’t looked away since Peggy’s coffin had been lowered into the ground. It felt wrong, somehow—she shouldn’t be covered up, shouldn’t be _down._ Peggy had never been down, still, silent. She had always been up, moving, doing, thinking ahead. This wasn’t a memorial for her. There should be a statue, there should be monuments, there should be _something_ upright and steadfast and defiant cutting against the cloudless blue sky, not the patter of earth on wood.

Earth on earth, now.

“I can’t,” he said, but he wasn’t talking to Sam. He could go. He just couldn’t _do this._

“There’s a lunch,” Sam said quietly. “You could talk to people who knew her in the time you missed. Share some stories.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“And you don’t want to get gawped at. I get it. But you can’t stand here all day.”

“Probably could.”

Sam rolled his eyes; Steve wasn’t looking at him, but he could tell. “Yeah, all right, _Cap_ , but that doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.”

“Okay.” Steve closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “Okay.” He turned around before he opened them again. It was easier that way, felt less like he was turning his back on her.

_“How am I going to get through this?”_ he’d asked, this morning, in the hotel room. It was meant to be a rhetorical question, a little self-pity between himself and his mirror, but Sam had apparently overheard.

“ _Same as she got through yours_ ,” he’d said—and somehow it wasn’t chiding, it was the most sympathetic thing anyone had said to him about this. Peggy did this too. She’d gone through this, complete with media and everyone paying just a little too much attention to her because of their history, while pretending not to. And it had to have been harder for her. Peggy had lived a full life, a long and rich one, full of triumphs and tragedies personal and private. He could mourn her but know that she was satisfied. Him? He’d been angry and desperate to prove himself; then stagnant and embarrassed; then on a grueling years-long mission to eliminate Hydra; then heartbroken and furious; then dead. She would have been furious about that. He couldn’t be mad about her death. It ought to make things easier.

He wasn’t as strong as Peggy. It didn’t.

“I’m coming,” he mumbled, sensing more than seeing Sam’s concerned look and forcing himself to keep moving.

Peggy, at least, had had other people around who knew him. Sam was wonderful, and Steve probably couldn’t have done any of this without him, but he hadn’t known Peggy. No one else here would—not the Peggy _he_ remembered. None of the Howlies were left, no one even from the early days of the SSR, and yes, he wanted to know about the parts of her life he’d missed, but there was no one who would quite know what he did, who would mourn quite the same woman. But that was just the way of it, as Peggy would say, and he should make use of what he’d got. Sam was already doing more than Steve could ever ask. He was doing a terrible job of showing gratitude.

“I appreciate this,” he said quietly. “All of— I know I haven’t been much fun to be around.”

“Man, it is a _funeral_ ,” Sam said in that exasperated-concerned tone of his. “I don’t expect you to be a barrel of laughs.”

“Yeah, but I don’t have to be a wet sock.” Steve sighed. “I’m . . . not really here right now.” The paused by a path to let a clump of people go by. The crowd was thinning, people streaming off to cars or walking the ten blocks to the place where the funeral lunch was being held.

“That’s okay,” Sam said. “Honestly, I’d be worried if you were. Think you were in denial or something. You lost someone who means a lot to you,” he went on when Steve looked away. “And especially so because she’s one of the last ties to all of your life before five years ago. You,” he poked Steve, “are allowed to be messed up over that.”

“Thank you,” Steve said again as they stepped onto the path. It curved gently as it wound through the cemetery, and he couldn’t help taking one quick look over his shoulder at the gravesite, one last goodbye. He looked—and caught sight of a figure standing there, directly across from him, head bowed, looking as intent as he had felt. Then, as Steve watched, he saluted once, briefly, before melting back into the crowd.

Steve couldn’t breathe.

“—Steve?” Sam was saying. “Hey, Steve, are you okay?”

He knew that silhouette.

“Bucky,” he whispered.

“Steve?” Sam waved a hand in front of his face. “You know I was kidding about the denial thing, right?”

Steve focused on him. “What? Yeah. No, I saw him. He’s here. Bucky’s here.”

Sam gave him a skeptical look. “The guy’s on the run from every intelligence agency in the world _and_ the Avengers. He’s in hiding, and this is a very public occasion. I’m not saying I don’t believe you, Steve, but coming here would be a colossally stupid thing to do. Do you really think he’d do something like that?”

“She’s the last one for him too,” Steve forced himself to point out.

Sam’s look turned considering. “You gonna go after him?”

“. . . . No,” Steve said. “No, it—it might not have been him” ( _but it was;_ he knew it in his bones) “and if it was— He walked away. No one noticed. I’m not going to draw attention to him.” It _hurt_ , but it felt right, and everything else felt secondary and shallow right now, like all of his pain was diverted to missing Peggy. Bucky deserved to be left in peace, if that was what he wanted. They could catch up later. They still had time.

There wouldn’t be any more time with Peggy, now.

“Good call,” Sam said, pushing his arm a little. He started walking automatically.

“I’m not seeing things.”

“Didn’t say you were.”

“Didn’t agree I wasn’t.”

“I’m paying attention to _you_ right now, that’s all. My job today is to get you through today. No matter what else comes up. Aliens could invade again and I’d check what you wanted to do first.”

“You’re a good friend, Sam.” Steve looked around. “I’d almost like an alien invasion right now.”

“You _really_ don’t want to make small talk, do you?”

“Thor’s Dark Elves didn’t come through too far from here, did they? Maybe they missed one?”

Sam snorted. “After three years? You’re going to drink coffee and talk with people about Peggy, and it is going to suck royally, but you can escape early if you don’t find anyone else bearable to talk to. And then you’ll have those stories, and you can go do whatever else you need to do.” He made a face. “I am genuinely sorry you can’t get drunk.”

“It’s not a proper wake if you’re sober,” Steve agreed, almost cheerful for a second before he remembered. Dum-Dum had been the one who always said that, falsely cheerful in their darkest moments, pulling out the rotgut he always managed to find from _somewhere_. Dum-Dum was one of the people who ought to be here. But he wasn’t. None of them were, stolen by time. And they’d lived _full fucking lives_ so he couldn’t even be angry, because even though they seemed cut short to him, they hadn’t been. He’d missed it all, sleeping in the ice.

Sam steered him out the gates of the cemetery and down the sidewalk. It took Steve a second to realize they weren’t going the most direct route. Sam had them circling around behind the church, away from where the reporters and photographers would be gathered. There would be enough _Tearstained Captain America Mourns Lost Love_ headlines tomorrow; no need to feed the vultures more, and no need to . . . . This should be about _her._

“Thanks,” Steve said hoarsely. He really was starting to sound like a broken record.

“Figured you don’t need to deal with that bullshit today,” Sam said in an undertone. Steve nodded, mouth twisting in something between a smile and a snarl. That was an understatement. And yet it didn’t really matter. “There’s a back way into the restaurant, too.”

They turned around the corner of the church, shoes crunching on damp gravel. Sam suddenly froze and Steve looked up half a beat later, distracted, dazed.

Bucky stood on the path before them, about fifteen feet away.

Sam drew in breath to speak, but Bucky beat him to it, holding up his hands. “I’m not here for trouble.”

“You better not be,” Sam warned. “This is _not the time_.”

Bucky shook his head. “I know.”

Steve found he’d taken a step forward, and then another. Sam hung back. Bucky spared one more look at him over Steve’s shoulder, then he was walking forward, too. When they met, Steve more or less fell onto him, burying his face in his shoulder.

~~~

It was _weird,_ seeing Steve go to pieces like this. Not that the guy hadn’t been barely holding himself together all day, or really since Carter had died, but he’d never really fallen apart. Sam flattered himself that he’d seen Steve more vulnerable than pretty much anyone else, that he was somebody who Steve felt comfortable enough around that he’d let the seams show, and he’d definitely seen Steve rough. Seen him crying, a couple times. But he’d never seen him _reach out_ like this before.

He hugged the Winter Soldier and collapsed on him, emotionally and physically, like it was a trust exercise—and damn if the man didn’t catch him. One arm wrapped around Steve’s waist while the other—the metal one, it had to be, but he was wearing a long dark coat and thin leather gloves so you couldn’t tell; it was chilly enough for that to be plausible—the metal arm curled around his back, hand splayed between Steve’s shoulder blades, pressing him in.

Steve said something, his voice muffled. Sam thought it was “she’s gone.”

“I know,” the other man said. His voice broke, and Sam abruptly stopped thinking _Winter Soldier_ and started thinking _Bucky._ Infiltrating a funeral to find a target was something a very confused former assassin might do—but faking emotion? That wasn’t something Sam thought was in the assassin skillset. Not this type of assassin. The Winter Soldier wasn’t like the Black Widow, and this man wasn’t acting like the Winter Soldier.

Steve lifted his head, and this time Sam could make out the words. “You’re here.”


End file.
